exitstrategy

I just got back from a first date.  I was not that excited about the date to begin with.  I had seen a picture of the guy and he seemed (a) unattractive and (b) tiny.  By tiny I do not just mean short - but also very slight (aka skinny and weighing less than me).  The pictures did not deceive.  This guy lived up to the various nick names I had given him prior to meeting: pocket size, tiny tim, and tom thumb (oh and can you believe my friend said that I was being judgmental since I had never even seen him before giving him these names.  Pfffff).So a week or so ago Pocket Size emailed me about getting together.  He suggested last Wednesday night.  I had plans on Wednesday (watch So You Think You Can Dance) so I suggested Sunday.  Well, Wednesday night Pocket Size emails and says “Yeah as you can tell Wednesday is no good.  I will call you Sunday to set up a time.”  Then, when Sunday rolls around Pocket Size does not call me until 4:30 to make the arrangement.  In the words of Shawn Colven, Where have all the cowboys goooooooooooone?  And by cowboys I assume she met chivalrous men.And to add further support to Shawn’s thesis — that all the cowboys are indeed gooooooooone — Pocket Size suggested we meet at the bar.  So, at 8:40 PM (fashionably late) I arrive at the bar.  Pocket Size had gotten a seat at the bar that was obstructed from the doorway.  Or, he was so little that I did not notice him.  Hmm, perhaps he was just hanging in a crawl space waiting for me to arrive.  Anyway, I sat at a different part of the bar and Pocket Size came over to greet me.  I was, shall we say, disappointed.We sat down and Pocket Size had already ordered a beer.  I ordered a glass of wine.  We started talking about law school and law firms and lawyers — as you may have guessed he was a lawyer (or a law clerk, rather).  And then there was an awkward pause for a good 30 seconds.  Then, I asked him where he lived.  He told me he lived in Lakeview.  He had a roomate last year who moved away and now he has a random summer roomate and then next year he will have another roomate.  I could not tell where he found these roomates but I think craigslist (I am not sure if “roommate” is code for lover, but its not outside the realm).  Then, after the roommate tales there was another akward pause.  I broke the pause by talking about how I just cant have roommates and how I had a bad roommate in college etc.  But there is only so much one can say about roommates so inevitably, there was yet another pause.  Theis was the general tenor of our evening.  Little random blurps of question and answer, or sometimes short stories (mostly me, sometimes him if you asked him about roommates) followed by akward pauses.Well it was getting too much for me.  So, I decided to lay on the old charm and whip up one of my funny anecdotes.  He had just talked about the Cubs/Whitesox game he went to.  It was the perfect opening for my baseball story.  ”Oh that reminds me,” I began, “when I was at my previous law firm I was invited to go on a client entertainment event and we went to a Whitesox game.  I was the only woman and I was trying to fit in so when everyone started talking about his favorite baseball team, I piped up and said I love the Minnesota Twins.  ’Who is your favorite twin?’ someone asked.  ’Kirby Puckett’ I replied.  ’Umm, I meant your favorite LIVING player.’ But, I could not name a living player.  It was embarrassing.”  And then I started laughing.  He chuckled a little.  ”I like the Yankees.”  ”Who is your favorite Yankee?”  ”I don’t know any actual players.”  And so began the longest of our awkward pauses.  I mean is this for real that I am the most into sports of the pair of us?  Well that just won’t work.  I can’t even name a living baseball player!!  So we were just sorta looking at each other and drinking when the guy upstairs sent a little help my way.  ”Did someone just mention Puckett?” asked the bartender?  ”Oh I used to live in Minnesota and I used to play basketball with Puck.  He was a great man. . . .”  And the guy just went on for a solid five minutes about Kirby.  It was great.  He provided a much needed voice into the mostly one woman show that was my date.We moved on from the Puck to various other topics.  I started talking about Grey’s Anatomy and how I had heard McDreamy was based on Rahm Emanual’s brother when our guardian angel laughed and piped in about Grey’s and the whole ABC lineup.  He told us how he loathes reality television because he does not feel that we should make celebrities out of people who were so stupid that there needed to be subtitles to understand their English.  Well said barkeep!Shortly after, I mentioned that I needed to get up early.  We asked for the check.  Pocket Size made no gesture towards the bill.  What’s the deal?  I mean does he want to talk more and not ready to pay?  So we squeezed out a little more conversation but it became apparent that he was not going to offer to pay.  Did he really think I was going to pay for him?  I glanced at the bill and they had only charged us for my glass of wine.  OMG Pocket Size had ordered and PAID for his drink before I even got there.  Now that is a first.  I mean I sometimes don’t even offer to pay when a guy asks me out, but if I were to use that tactic in this situation I would still be there right now.  Ugh, the cowboys are GOOOOOOOOONE.So what did I learn from this date?  That good things come in small packages?  Not in this case.  That chivalry is dead?  Well maybe.  That I have gotten back into someone’s good graces since I had been touched by the barkeep/angel?  Indeed.  Thank G-d for Kirby Puckett.  GOOOOOO TWINS.

It was some time in the 90s that Hillary Clinton coined the phrase (or stole it, I have no idea the origin) that it takes a village to raise a child.  I would not know since as my name implies I am barren.  But, what I do know, is it takes a village (or an office of gals) to dress the Spinsta.Last Friday Fat Bastard and Ball Scratch had a client meeting.  FB informed me that I was not invited.  I was not surprised and in fact relieved.  I mean who wants to have some major meeting on a Friday.  So, since I was not going to emerge from my tiny hole/office I decided to wear a “work appropriate” number that could easily transition to my happy hour garb.  So, I wore a black tank, black skinny pants and a blazer.  Just to draw a mental image the tank top was low cut and the skinny pants were TIGHT.  But, as I said, no one was gonna see me anyways.I think you know where this is going.  At 1145 I get a call inviting me to the meeting.  ”Are you dressed appropriately to meet the client” he asks.  ”Well I am not in a suit but I am wearing a blazer.”  ”Ok great.  See you at noon.”  Well it was true that I was wearing a blazer but beneath the blazer lay a skin tight onsie a la Sprockets.  Although no hair grease.  I ran into my friends office.  ”What do you think of my outfit?”  ”Its fine.”  ”Is it fine for a client meeting?”  No answer, just hysterical laughter.  ”But I am wearing a blazer!”  More laughter.  ”Ok, well whats the problem?”  ”Um your shirt is really low.”  ”Ok I have a scarf, be right back.”  I head back to her office with the scarf and am running like a mad woman.  So, of course, I attract the attention of the Stomper.  ”What’s going on?”  ”Client meeting.  I am trying to fix my outfit.”  ”Yeah I’ll say.”  Oh please Stomp, you wish you could wear these pants.  (Note: that was my internal monologue.)  So, I show my friend the new and improved outfit.  ”Well?” “Here let me fix this.”  She fixed the scarf so it covered all the skin on my exposed chest.  ”Ok its fine.  You should safety pin it.”  ”Ok this is ok?  I mean my pants are tight.”  ”Yes they are but there is nothing you can do now.  But to be safe maybe you should ask another associate.”  So, I ask another associate.  ”Um well I guess that is ok.”  I then ask my secretary.  ”Hmm, I can still see your chest.  Why don’t you turn your shirt around.”  ”Brilliant, one sec.”  Seconds later I emerge covered up.  ”Wow you are a genius.”  ”Yeah, here take this.”  She hands me the scissors to cut the label.  ”Much better.  But go ask B (another secretary).”  ”What do you think of my outfit?”  ”It’s cute.  I love your clothes.”  ”It’s for a client meeting.”  No answer, hysterical laughter.  ”Here try on my shoes.”  She hands me black pumps to swap out my silver 4 inch stilleto sandals.  ”Much better.”  Twenty five minutes later, and with the help of 5 co-workers, I had finally gotten dressed for the meeting.Being no dumby myself (just a ho-dresser) I sat in the conference room well before anyone else got there so as to camouflage the tight pants.About 15 minutes later, the client who refuses to shake my hand (you remember, the one who I had to chase after carrying the wheely bag) came into the office with the rest of the team.  He saluted me and said “nice to see ya.”  I do not think it would have mattered what I wore with this guy.  He would not have seen me anyway.  I think in his mind he longs for the days when boys were boys and women were barefoot.  The idea of me in pants probably drove him mad (the tightness of them may have been a help to my case, not sure why but sex sells they say).So I made it through the 2 hour meeting.  I didn’t get up until everyone had left - which meant I held my bladder for an eternity and have no idea what anyone said because I was too focused on not wetting myself.  All in all, it was a success.As an endnote, may I just say that I do not dress like a ho always.  I hate conforming to the role as nameless faceless peon slaving away at the law firm.  It is my silent protest.  My own version of civil disobedience.  When I wear tight clothes I am bucking the system - there is no way I can be faceless with an ass of my size.

Not to shock you all, but Fat Spinsta is not my given name.  The two people who gave me my given name were, until recently, unaware of my nom de plume.At approximately 10:43 AM on Sunday morning, the Spinsta was unmasked.  ”Hello?”  ”*!>!*!>! (name changed to protect my anonymity), this is your father.  We need to talk.”  ”Yeah Dad, what’s up?”  ”I googled Fat Spinsta and I found your blog.  And, mom and I are not happy.  I mean how could you tell the world at large that mom wants you to marry a man on a respirator?”  ”Ugh Dad, don’t be crazy.  The blog is slightly exaggerated and barely anyone reads it.  I would not worry how you appear.”  ”We are not happy.  If you are going to tell everyone about this, then you should also tell the world that mom and I buy you groceries, and mom and I drive you to work, and mom and I graciously invited you to move back home and live in our redone basement.  Why don’t you tell them that huh?”  ”Dad this is a ridiculous conversation,” I said and hung up.Now a few things come to mind.  First, the majority of my blogs involve me being hammered and/or doing inappropriate things.  You would think that he would comment on that (or better yet propose an urgent trip to rehab) rather than comment on how my blog entry re: the love of my life on the breathing apparatus was a non-fiction expose.  Second, the reason I do not blog about the groceries and stuff is because it is boring.  Plus, the image of Fat Spinsta as a tortured soul is much more authentic with the parents I have written.  Third, you are not the boss of me Dad, I am a mature, independent woman!!And honestly, what sort of evil genius must my father be that he could find this website?  I can barely find it and clearly my viewers can’t (unless there is some other reason I have so few, but it is highly unlikely).There was only one other time that my parents caught wind of my secret identity.  It was in high school when I smoked cigs at parties and I had an eagle shaped lighter (badass!!) in my jean jacket pocket.  My mom went through my pockets, under the guise of cleaning my clothes, and her and my dad called me into their bedroom and showed the lighter.  ”Do you smoke cigarettes?”  ”No, I just keep the lighter for my friend.”I guess I have been testing out secret identities for a while now and somehow my parents always find out.  I guess then it is only a matter of time before you find out who I am.  I am . . .Kate Something of John and Kate Plus Eight (DAMN YOU CHILDREN, MOMMY NEEDS TO BLOG).

I am remembering an episode of a sit com from a few years ago - I think it was Will & Grace - when the stars are trying to figure out if this one guy is gay or straight.  He would say stereotypically gay things and then he would say stereotypically straight things and the show went back and forth.  I do not remember the outcome.  The reason I am reminded of this episode is that I had a similar experience on a date last night - not whether the guy was gay or straight, but whether he was Jewish or a Jehovah’s Witness. So, we meet for drinks at a bar and it turns out to be too crowded, so we go to a nearby sushi restaurant.  We sit down and he immediately asks me about my past relationships.  Well that question did not strike me as having a religious slant but it was rather forward and inappropriate for a first date.  Then he asks me if I want to have children.  Yikes - see reaction above.  But then we get to the heart of the matter.  We start talking about food.  ”I really love this one cheese I get from a farmer’s market.  It is a creamy cheese with pistachios.  It is not cream cheese because I hate cream cheese.”  Hate cream cheese?  Definitely not Jewish.  ”But,” he continued, “I am practically shunned by my people for my hate of cream cheese.”  Oh ok, put a check in the Jewish column.   We moved on to our second drinks and we had taken a break from the hard hitting questions and talked about work.  I spared him the details of my job since I have recently learned that it is a turn off to talk about things you hate and it is also a turn off to talk about a fat man who emits white powder out of every orifice.  After a little more polite conversation, he tells me that he has never smoked pot before.  He is anti substance use.  Hmm, not sure but I did know a lot of overweight Jewish dudes in high school and college who loved to smoke pot and listen to phish.   ”And actually,” he confessed, “I have never been drunk before.  I have been slightly buzzed before but never drunk.  I enjoy the taste of spirits, but I do not believe in being drunk.”  ”Really,” I shouted in disbelief.  ”Not even in high school or college?”  I tempered my statement and did not ask him about junior high since I was not sure if that many kids, besides myself and my bad-ass friend marnie, drank the manishevitz at bar mitzvahs.  ”Nope, I have never been drunk.  Actually in high school I did not drink at all.  I used to tell people about the evils of alcohol.  I was like the religious right.  And then after I became a legal drinker I learned to enjoy my alcohol but not drink to get drunk.”  Not drink to get drunk?  Well, clearly he was crazy, but he was also a teetotaler.  Mark a check in the Jehovah’s column. Then we talk about our favorite restaurants.  He mentions several times how certain restaurants are too expensive.  And how he will not pay for cabs.  Hmm, he is cheap?  Mark a check in the Jewish column. ”I don’t eat pork,” he said.  Ok, Jewish.  ”Do you eat bacon,” I asked.  ”Well yes and I eat cheeseburgers, but never pork.”  Oh ok, definitely Jewish.  Finally, we start talking about birthdays.  ”I don’t celebrate my birthday.”  Yep, its official, Jehovah.  ”Wait, why not?” “I can’t ask people to spend money on me.”  ”But they want to.  And what goes around comes around - you do it for your friends and then they do it for you.”  ”Nope, I just wouldn’t ask that of people.”  ”Ok then don’t ask them to pay but they can still celebrate your birthday.   Better yet, you take them out.  You should still celebrate your day.”  ”No.” Shortly after his anti-birthday tirade we parted ways.  I do not know if we will go out again.  I mean he was nice.  And he is definitely different than other guys I have met.  I mean I can safely say that I have never met a Jewish Jehovah.  So we shall see.  I mean in truth I should probably marry the guy.  Although our wedding would be a real snooze with the no alcohol.  But on the plus side I would never need to celebrate his birthday.   I should have asked what his views were on celebrating other people’s birthday.  I mean that is a deal breaker - I am turning 30 and there better be (a) a HUGE celebration and (b) a LOT of alcohol.

So tonight I had dinner with my parents - high school style.  You know, my mom cooks, and we sit around in silence set off by moments of conversation about the weather, work, etc.  As my mom was cleaning up I glanced down and noticed my mom’s blackberry in this bowl.  I assumed it was broken so I turned it on to investigate.  As soon as the screen lit up, I saw an email between my mom and my sister with subject line: Fat Spinsta.  The two of them had been emailing back and forth about what is best for me.  In their eyes, this means who is best for me.  And, again in their eyes, that means any man with a pulse (although my mom would probably support me dating a man on a ventilator). After the 1,000,000th conversation with my mom (and my sister) about what I want out of life - - which is not what they want for me - - my mom and I end the conversation in the same way: we agree to disagree.  Which in our family means my mom agrees to disagree until she brings it up again, and again, and again.  And for me, it means I bury the feelings down deep and then take my rage out on innocent people (note: this does not include the number cruncher.  Thanks to my concerned fan inquiring of my well being.  I am safe.  Although, today, the number cruncher was singing Killing me Softly). So after we have our familiar song and dance, we sit down to watch the television.  I know Oprah disapproves of families spending their time together watching TV (except for her show I would assume) since that time could be better spent talking, interacting, and building stronger relationships rather than just escaping.  Well for my family, escape is the only option.  Well, true escape is not possible (we are like the Mafia - you can never really be free), so we are left with the virtual escape that comes with 30 minute sit coms. So, during this mini escape, my parents dog sat next to me on the couch.  This dog always loved me.  I used to babysit him when he was my sisters dog, but my sister could not care for him and so he became my parents dog.  He never forgot who was there for him and who abandoned him.  Well, tonight, his looks for me were not the usual aunty-nephew looks.  No, tonight, he would not stop licking my arm.  Then, when I turned away so that he could not lick my arm, he tried to hump my leg.  Not in the 4 years that my parents have had him has this dog tried anything similar.   So this is my life?  My parents dog comes on to me?  My family tries to sell me off to the next breathing male on the street?   

THE FOLLOWING BLOG IS A DRAMATIC RE-ENACTMENT OF HOW THE NUMBER CRUNCHER LOST HIS MARBLES. . . So I normally do not blog at work, but I had to tell this tale in case I do not make it out of here.  I am sitting under my desk, hiding.  From who, you ask?  From the number cruncher.  You remember him - the one who made me beg for interest calculations.  Well, the number cruncher has always been quite odd.  My friend at the firm and I used to imagine what he did when he left the office.  She imagined that he went he went home to a house with body parts in the fridge.  You get the picture. So, today I was standing in a secretary cubicle with the IT guy trying to figure out how to a get an image to print.  The IT guy was inputing codes of some sort and I was just standing over his shoulder, trying to look helpful.  Number cruncher walks toward the cubicle, and then starts to walk past me.  He pauses, turns, lunges at me, I jump, and he walks away cackling.  I mean it was not a lunge like the dude was gonna attack.  It was more of a fake out.  But it was nevertheless terrifying.  Note: I jump when pigeons fly in my direction from 50 feet in front of me.  You can imagine the jump when a potential maniac lunged towards me.  And, while the lunge may have been a fake out, the cackle was for real.   Not knowing what to do, I went to my friend to seek her survival advice.  I mean he had clearly picked me as his intended victim.  ”Number cruncher lunged at me.  I think he has lost it.”  ”Hmm, interesting you say that because earlier today he let out the loudest belch I have ever heard and then starting singing Super Freak.  Yeah something is off with him today.  Be careful.”  ”Thanks.  You too.  G-d speed.”  I walked back towards my office and I crossed paths with Number Cruncher again as he was going towards his office.  Hover, he had changed from his workplace chinos to a pair of jeans and a baseball shirt.  Right after he saw me he went into his office and closed the door. I rushed back to my office and got under my desk.  The only thing I remember from elementary school was that in the case of an emergency, you should get under your desk.  They called it duck and cover.  It was for tornados, not maniacs on the loose, but it was the safest place I could think of.  I mean if he comes looking for me he will assume I have left for the weekend.   So what does all this mean?  The lunge, the cackle, the jeans and baseball tee?  And then it became clear.  The Number Cruncher had changed into more comfortable clothes so he could move around.  He was in his office with the door closed to get out his bat (or other bludgeoning tool).  He was gonna add me to his collection of refridgerated parts. So, I made that connection hours ago.  I have been sitting under my desk ever since.  I am the only one left in the office it seems.  There are no sounds out there.  Should I leave?  Is it safe?  I mean why else would someone sing superfreak and wear jeans?  Could there be another reason besides it being murder time?  Could he be letting loose on a Friday, aka could it be Miller Time?   I will wait for a sign.  

To paraphrase John McCain, paraphrasing the great Teddy Roosevelt, you are supposed to walk softly and carry a big stick.  The stomper, however, defies this cardinal rule.  She walks extremely loudly.  I do not know what her deal is with the stick - although I wouldn’t put anything past her. I have spent the past several days observing her.  I wanted to give this blog some authenticity, so before I made my conclusions about the stomper, I performed a scientific analysis of the stomper in her natural habitat.  I gathered data for four days, and then ran the results through a mathematical model and here are the results, with only a 0.2% error rate (Note: I use the same statistician as Patty Stanger a la the 98 percent success rate). First, the Stomper is a Face Time Whore.  The FTW is one who spends needless amounts of time in the office just to be seen by the higher ups.  For instance, the FTW will order dinner every night and she will eat her dinner in the kitchen with some partner asking him/her about his/her cases.  Now not only will the FTW order dinner every night, but she will always be the one to send out the email that the food has arrived, just in case you are a partner who is not in the office and did not know that she, per usual, was “working.”  The FTW will also come in during the weekends.  She will let you know that she is in the office by sending emails during the weekend asking questions, asking whether anyone wants to order lunch or dinner, and, of course, emailing everyone that the food has arrived.  I mean I understand the FTW wants some free meals, but girl it will not kill you to spend your own five dollars at subway every now and then. Second, the stomper is a Face Up The Butt Of Partner, or FUTBOF.  The FUTBOF will constantly talk about work.  She will tell everyone else what she is doing for said partner up whose butt she resides.  She will also say ridiculous things to said partner like “oh I am so glad I am not you, your work is soooo hard” or “whatever you need me to do I will” or “I am super excited about this ____.”  You get the point.  Brown nose. Third, the stomper is a Self Important Bufoon, or an SIB.  The majority of lawyers are in fact SIB.  This is my problem with them: most of what we do is unimportant, clerical work that SUCKS.  So, fellow barristers, lets call a spade a spade.  It blows so just admit it and we can all move on.  But the SIBs will act like what they are doing is life or death, and they will run around ordering secretaries or paralegals to do additional sucky stuff and be overly dramatic about it.   Oh and of course the stomper STOMPS.  Either she has cement shoes or she has had way too many firm dinners. So, my preliminary results suggest that the stomper is a gunner.  She is well suited for her profession and I will likely be working for her one day (read: next month).  It is people like that who excel at the legal profession.  They value work over life and they are perfectly happy to toil away at meaningless crap and call it “sophisticated legal work.”  Of course, it is also people like that who make lawyers such a bunch of terrible people.  So what is the importance of this scientific study?  Well, it is a lesson to me.  Carry a big stick and if need be, whack the stomper.  NOTE: I do not condone office violence but it would be self defense.  I mean this chick STOMPS.